Page 92 of Red Hot Harmony

I saw his throat work slowly through the haze of music and surprise. He leveled his glare on me and we sat like that—tense and speechless—until thatgod-awful I want moresong came to an abrupt end.

“Thanks,” was all he managed during the short pause, and then he messed with the chain links for a second before putting the necklace around his neck.

I lowered the volume a little so I didn’t have to shout my next words at him. “It’s okay to lose faith sometimes. It happens to all of us. The important thing is to get up and move forward. One step at a time, man.” I patted his back. “One step at a time.”

Malik clutched at the cross now hanging down his massive chest and squeezed it as if it would fix everything.

At some point, I thought he was going to break his skin and bleed all over his T-shirt, but that didn’t happen. He just continued to hold on to the pendant as we left the hospital lot and steered toward the intersection.

The drive back to my place wasn’t exceptionally chatty. Instead, we spun more tunes and exchanged encouraging phrases.

There was a holdup near Stone Creek. A long line of cars snaked up the hill and disappeared into the black fog and behind the foliage edging the road. The ash was now falling in earnest—like rain—and my wipers were working hard at keeping the windshield dirt-free.

Behind us, a siren blared. Soon enough, flickers of red joined the approaching sound.

In my rearview mirror, I saw a fire truck making its way toward us. Puffing and roaring and driving up on the curb.

The noise came and went, leaving my ears ringing.

Malik and I shared a glance and then pulled out our phones to check the news, but the app didn’t load.

“I don’t have any data,” he growled, looking at his screen with accusation.

“Me neither,” I said, trying a browser to no avail.

There was movement on the road. People were leaving their cars now, talking.

I yanked the bandana up to cover up my mouth and nose and stepped outside, into the wall of ash to see if anyone had the inside scoop.

“There’s a brushfire on the other side of the hill,” a man shouted.

I spotted a group of firefighters a few blocks up, their uniforms mingling in the gray mist. One of them was rushing over, asking people to get inside their vehicles. A police cruiser showed up from out of nowhere, and suddenly, the road turned into chaos.

I climbed back into the Navigator. “I think they’re rerouting traffic,” I told Malik, jerking the gears. “There’s a fire.”

“Shit,” he cursed and scanned our surroundings.

Some of the drivers were already maneuvering their vehicles.

“Is there another way?” Malik asked.

“Yeah. We’ll go around,” I explained. “Cut through the mountain on the other side.”

It took us thirty minutes just to get out of Stone Creek, cross the freeway, and drive three miles south before returning to the hills.

Part of me expected the back road to also be closed when I spied another fire truck on the side of the street, but we weren’t stopped, just waved at as my Navigator crawled up the incline.

It was nearly four by the time we pulled up to my house.

The bright red Jaguar in front of the gate stood out like a sore thumb. I hit the brakes and saw a female figure standing next to the vehicle. A scarf covered the lower half of her face and she wore a simple pair of jeans and a T-shirt, but her mess of hair that coincidentally matched the color of the car confirmed it was Camille.

“Give me a second,” I said to Malik, then pulled the bandana over my nose and stepped out of the Navigator.

A strong gust of wind ripped at my jacket and slapped against my cheeks and I smelled the fire. The stench of burnt grass and melted rubber and ruined underbrush crept into my lungs and settled there, heavy and undeniable, a reminder of how fleeting we and our lives truly were.

Camille moved in my direction, her strides small and uncertain, and my instincts told me something was wrong.

She stopped several feet away, her fingers clenching and unclenching at her thighs.

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